Dear Mister Sawyer
by Zebediah
Summary: Walt Lloyd is a troubled fifteen-year-old boy with a flair for creative writing. James Ford is a high-school English teacher who encourages Walt to write more. But then one of Walt's stories hits close to home for James... COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_**Dear Mister Sawyer**_

**Chapter 1**

"Okay, so let's see who did their homework last night," James Ford announced to his students. "Hand 'em in."

"Uh, Mr. Ford?" he heard a voice ask tentatively. He looked towards the back, and saw Walt Lloyd holding his hand up.

_Uh-oh, here comes the excuse,_ he thought. "Yeah, Walt?"

"Um, I know you said the paper had to be four pages…" the boy began.

"That's right," James said. "Four pages, double-spaced, at least."

"So it's okay if it's longer, then?"

"Longer?" James was taken aback. "Uh, sure, Walt. If it came out a bit longer, that's fine."

"Well…" Walt said awkwardly. "It's more than a _bit_ longer…" The other students giggled.

"How long?" James asked.

"Uh…" Walt was clearly very embarrassed. But then, most fifteen-year-old boys lived in a state of perpetual embarrassment. "It's fifteen pages."

"_Fifteen pages?"_ James echoed. The class erupted in laughter.

"I kinda got on a roll with it," Walt admitted sheepishly.

"Well, okay," James said, smiling. "But I only give extra credit if it's _good_."

The relief on the boy's face was evident. "Okay, that's cool." He held up a thick sheaf of papers and handed it to James.

James shook his head, smiling. He'd been teaching English to sullen high-school kids for over ten years, and sometimes they could still pleasantly surprise him.

* * *

James was grading papers when his wife got home from work that evening. "Hey, Cassie!" he said with a smile.

"Mommy!" a small voice called out. A little girl ran to the door and hugged Cassidy.

"Hi James! Hi there, Clementine!" she answered them. "Did you have a good day?"

"Uh-huh," Clementine said. "We learned about turtles at school today!" James smiled. Clementine was five, and kindergarten excited her.

"That's good!" Cassidy said. "How about you, daddy?"

James grinned. "Today I learned that a problem student can turn out to be your favorite one."

"Yeah?" Cassidy said. "Who?"

"I have this kid in third period named Walt," he said. "He started out the year really angry and hard to reach. But the kid's got a real gift for writing." He held up Walt's paper. "He turned in a creative writing assignment this morning that really blew my socks off."

"Great!" Cassidy said, as she headed back towards their bedroom to change. "But I hope it didn't make you forget it's your night to cook dinner!"

"It's on the stove," James said. "Should be ready in twenty minutes or so. Oh, and I invited Jack over to watch the game tonight."

"Good!" Cassidy called back from the other room. "Because I invited a friend from work over too. Her name's Kate."

James stood up and walked back towards the bedroom. "Are you trying to play matchmaker with my best friend again?"

"Well, yeah," Cassidy said. "Isn't that what best friend's wives are supposed to do?"

James laughed. "I guess. Maybe it'll be good for him. The guy's been working himself to death since Sarah left him."

* * *

Jack Shepard had been James' best friend for years. He was a workaholic surgeon who, in James' opinion, seriously needed to loosen up a bit before he burned himself out. And Jack's ex-wife was a touchy subject; he'd been depressed and obsessive for months after they'd split. James wasn't sure how Jack would take to Cassidy's blatant attempt fix him up with someone.

It turned out better than James expected. Jack and Kate seemed to take a shine to each other immediately, which more than made up for the awful fielding the Red Sox were showing against Cleveland that night.

"_Another_ error?" Jack snorted in disgust, and took a quick drink of beer.

"And another unearned run," James added, laughing.

"What, you're an Indians fan?" Kate asked.

"James is a fan of whoever the Red Sox are playing, when Jack's around," Cassidy explained. "Just like Jack always cheers for whoever Atlanta is playing when they watch National League games."

Kate laughed. "Cheer up," she told Jack. "It could be worse. I'm a Mariners fan."

That got all of them laughing. "So how's teaching?" Jack asked James as the inning finally ended.

"Not bad at all," James said. "Same old crap from the kids every year, of course, but once in a while it turns out to be worth it. I finally found a kid who can really write."

"Must be pretty good, the way you keep bragging about him," Cassidy said.

"He is," James said. "I mean, yeah, he's fifteen, so it's not exactly Hemingway, but he's got talent."

"What did he write?" Kate prompted.

"He turned in a story about a guy named Hugo who wins a huge jackpot in the lottery," James said. "Except that the money was cursed, and it only brought misfortune to everyone around him. So in the end, he gave all the money away so he could be happy again." He took a drink of beer. "Simple enough plot, but the kid really made the characters come alive."

"Cursed lottery money," Jack mused. "We should all be so unlucky."

Everyone laughed, and James explained, "It wasn't actually the money that was cursed, though. It was the numbers Hugo used to play the lottery."

"Cursed lucky numbers?" Jack laughed. "I like it!"

"Has this kid written anything else?" Cassidy asked.

"Yeah, this is the third creative writing assignment I've given them," James said. "His first two stories were fairly well-written, but kind of grim." He took another drink of his beer, and said, "The first one was about a policewoman who got shot in the line of duty while she was pregnant, and lost her baby. After she recovered, she hunted down the guy who shot her, and killed him."

"Lovely," Jack said sarcastically.

"Yeah, well, he's fifteen years old," James said. "You have to allow for a _little_ bit of gratuitous violence. His other story was about a girl who blew up her family's trailer with her mom's boyfriend inside it, because the boyfriend was abusing her mom. And then the mother turned the girl in to the police because she'd been in love with the guy in spite of everything."

Kate looked thoughtful. "Makes you wonder what his home life is like," she said quietly.

James shrugged. "His parents split when he was a toddler, I think," he said. "He lived with his mother and never saw his dad again until he was about ten, when his mom died."

"That'll give you issues," Cassidy mused.

"Well, don't _all_ guys have daddy issues?" Kate asked.

"About ninety-five percent," Jack said, chuckling.

"Really?" Kate asked. "You don't get along with you dad?"

"Oh, we get along great, when he's sober," Jack told her. "And he's been on the wagon for almost five years now. Before that, when he was drinking – not really, no."

"How about you?" Kate asked James. "Any daddy issues in the Ford family?"

James shook his head. "My parents both died when I was eight," he said softly.

"Oh," Kate said, embarrassed. "Sorry, I – I didn't know."

"Don't worry about it," James said. "It was a long time ago."

"So what were these cursed lottery numbers, huh?" Jack asked, breaking the tension. "Maybe I'll play them and get cursed with a few million dollars."

"Hold on, I got 'em right here," James said, reaching for his briefcase and pulling out a folder full of papers. "Let's see, here's his paper…" He scanned through it quickly, and said. "Here they are. Four, eight, fifteen, sixteen, twenty-three, and forty-two."

"_What?"_ Jack shouted. Then he started laughing uncontrollably. "Oh, that's good," he said, tears rolling down his face. "That's really good."

"What?" Kate asked. "What's so funny about those numbers?"

"They're the retired uniform numbers for the Yankees," Jack said, still laughing.

"No way!" James shouted. "Really?"

"Really," Jack said. "Four, Lou Gehrig. Eight, Yogi Berra. Fifteen, Thurman Munson. Sixteen, Whitey Ford. Twenty-three, Don Mattingly. And forty-two is Jackie Robinson, which was retired league-wide. Totally brilliant."

"Is that why the Yankees always beat the Red Sox?" Kate teased.

"Son of a bitch," James said, grinning like an idiot. "That's clever. I'm giving him extra credit for that one."

* * *

The next day, James watched with great satisfaction as Walt's eyes nearly popped out of his head when he got his paper back. At the top was a bright red A+.

"Good story, Walt," James said. "_Really_ good story. Keep it up, okay?"

Walt just sat there with a stunned expression on his face. "Okay," he said quietly. And then, with a grin. "Okay, Mr. Ford!"

"There's another creative writing assignment due next Friday," he announced to his class, receiving widespread groaning in response. "Four pages, double-spaced, minimum. Or longer if you want," he added, chuckling to himself. He couldn't wait to see what Walt came up with next.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Hi James," Daniel Faraday said. They were in the teacher's lounge during lunch on a Friday afternoon, and Faraday, a science teacher, was as usual in the middle of an epic chess match with history teacher Jeremy Bentham. Bentham, who was contemplating his next move, merely glanced up and nodded to James.

"Hi guys," James said, settling down into a chair near them. "Don't mind me. I'm just going to read the latest from my new favorite author."

"Who's that?" Faraday asked.

"Walt Lloyd," James told him. "He's in my third period class. He's got some real talent for writing. He comes up with some really amazing short fiction."

Faraday shook his head. "Don't know him."

"I do," Bentham said, moving his bishop. "He's a good kid at heart. He's got a lot of anger, though. It gets him in trouble sometimes."

"An angry young man, huh?" Faraday said with a grin.

Bentham nodded, and added. "It's probably why I like him so much."

James gave a quick snort of laughter. "Me too, now that you mention it."

"Really?" Faraday asked. "James, you don't seem like the angry type to me."

"Oh, but you didn't know me when I was in high school," James said, chuckling. "I wasn't anyone's favorite student, let me tell you."

"What's his story about?" Bentham asked.

"Basically, it's about a guy who gets conned out of a kidney by his father," James said. Bentham raised a curious eyebrow, so James continued, "He was put up for adoption when he was born because his mother was schizophrenic, you see. So he never met his biological parents until he was an adult. When he did, his father pretended to want to get to know him, but all he was really after was his son's kidney because he needed a transplant. As soon as the transplant was done, he wouldn't talk to his son any more."

Faraday whistled. "That's harsh."

"Kronos," Bentham muttered.

"Huh?" Faraday asked.

"It's from Greek mythology," Bentham explained. "Kronos was the father of the gods, who ate his children."

"Interesting parallel," James said.

Faraday shuddered. "Creepy, though."

"Yeah, well, the kid is working through some stuff, I think," James said. "I did a lot of the same thing when I was his age. But it turns into some really good writing. And Locke comes across as a really believable character."

Bentham gave a start. "Who?"

James grinned. "That's my favorite part. The main character in the story is named John Locke."

"You mean, like the philosopher?" Faraday asked.

"Exactly," James said. "I don't know where he saw the name, but it just fits the character somehow."

"Interesting," Bentham said softly, staring off into the distance.

James gave Bentham a curious look. "Something wrong, Jeremy?"

Bentham hesitated for a second, and then said, "Did I ever tell you that I went looking for my biological parents a few years back?"

James looked startled. "No. I didn't know you were adopted."

Bentham nodded. "Well, I was," he said. "I got curious, so I hired a private detective to track them down. It turns out my mother was schizophrenic, had been in and out of various institutions for decades. And her name," he said pointedly, "was Emily Locke. She had named me John. My adoptive parents renamed me Jeremy."

"No way," James said. "Your birth name was John Locke?"

"My father was a little harder to track down," Bentham continued, "because he had used so many aliases. He was a small-time con man. He made his living scamming people out of their life savings. He ruined a lot of lives in the process."

"Son of a bitch," James said softly. And then, more forcefully, "Son of a _bitch_! You mean Walt stole your life story?"

Bentham shook his head. "He couldn't have, James. I've never told all of this to anybody except my wife, and I seriously doubt Helen would have told Walt. So there's no way he could have known."

"Still," James said, "it's a hell of a coincidence."

"The part about the kidney," Faraday said. "Did that happen too?"

"No," Bentham said. "I only met my biological father once. And once I figured out that he was a complete sociopath with no regard for anybody else, I decided I never wanted to talk to him again."

"Damn," Faraday said. "I guess you're sorry you ever looked for your parents, huh?"

Bentham smiled. "Not a bit. If nothing else, it convinced me that I was better off with my adoptive parents than I ever would have been with my biological ones. That's satisfying to know."

"So you think it really is a coincidence," James said.

"I don't see how it could be anything else," Bentham said. "Maybe Jung was right about synchronicity. Who knows? Give the kid some credit, though. Even if he did somehow know the bare facts of my life story, he turned it into an original work, didn't he?"

"I guess so," James said doubtfully. "Pretty damned spooky, though."

"Blame it on quantum entanglement, if you want," Faraday said with a wry grin. "One thing I learned from studying physics: whenever you have something weird that you can't explain, invoke quantum mechanics. Nobody really understands it, so you can use it to explain a lot of inexplicable stuff, if you wave your arms really fast."

"All right, then," James said, laughing. "I'll give Walt the benefit of the doubt. I still want to talk to him about it, though."

* * *

As school was being dismissed that day, James saw Walt in the corridor outside his classroom. "Hey Walt," he called. "You got a minute?"

"Sure, Mr. Ford," he said, coming into the classroom. "What's up?"

"I was reading your story," James said, "and I was wondering. Where did you get the name 'John Locke'?"

"It's in a book my dad has," Walt said. "I needed a name, and that kinda just felt right, you know?"

James nodded. "And the plot – where did that come from?"

Walt shrugged and said, "Well, I was kind of thinking – what's the worst thing somebody could steal from you? And I though, a piece of you, right?"

James nodded again. "Yeah, I can see that."

Walt looked thoughtful. "But when I was writing it, I started thinking. The kidney wasn't really the worst thing Locke's dad stole from him, was it?"

James felt his teacher's instincts rise to the question. "So what was the worst thing, then?"

Walt looked a little bit embarrassed. "Well, I mean, he made his son trust him, and then he took advantage of that, right? So he kind of stole his son's trust."

James smiled. "You just earned yourself some extra credit."

James hadn't realized until then that someone with skin as dark as Walt's could visibly blush. But Walt looked pleased nonetheless.

* * *

That evening, James got a call on his phone at home. "Mr. Ford?" the voice on the other end said. "Michael Dawson. I'm Walt Lloyd's father."

"Yes, Mr. Dawson!" James said. "What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to thank you for what you've been doing for my son," Dawson said. "This writing thing you've got him doing has really inspired him."

"Well, I'm happy to hear that, Mr. Dawson."

"I want to ask – do you think he has some real potential?" James could hear the hope in Dawson's voice. "Do you think he might be able to do this for a living, maybe?"

"I think so, Mr. Dawson," James said. "He's the most talented young writer I've found in over ten years of teaching. If he works hard and develops it, I think he could make a serious go at it, at least."

"That's great!" Dawson sounded excited. "Man, that's great. I mean, there was a time when I wanted to be an artist, but some things got in the way, you know? It wasn't because I didn't have the talent, but – well, things happened, and I couldn't afford to devote myself to it full-time. But I don't want that to happen to Walt. If he really has talent, I want to help him develop it."

"Well, there might be some things you can do about that," James said. "There are summer writing programs for high school students at some local colleges, for example. It might be worth looking into them for Walt."

"I'll do that," Dawson said. "Look, if he gets into one of those programs – you see, I don't have a lot of money for that sort of thing. But Walt does – he has a trust fund from his mother's estate. The trustees would probably be willing to pay for something like this out of the trust fund, if they had a recommendation from a teacher –"

"Say no more, Mr. Dawson," James said. "I'd be more than happy to help out with that. Just let me know what you need, okay?"

"Thank you, Mr. Ford," Dawson said. "You don't know how much this means to me."

"No problem, Mr. Dawson," James said. "And tell Walt I'm looking forward to his next story, okay?"

"I'll do that," Dawson said. "He let me read what he's done on it so far, and I don't think you'll be disappointed."

James smiled when he hung up the phone. Cassidy looked at him from across the room, and said, "What was that all about?"

James grinned back at her. "Job satisfaction," he said. "Pure, simple job satisfaction. Some days I really love doing what I do."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"What's up, Mr. Ford?" Walt asked as he walked into the classroom.

"Come on over here, Walt," James answered. He'd asked Walt to drop by after school was over. "I just wanted to talk to you about your latest story."

"Oh, sure," Walt said. "Uh, is something wrong with it?"

"No, no, it's very good," James said. "You pulled off a complex plot really well. You actually kept me guessing until the last page how it was going to turn out."

Walt grinned. "Yeah, I wasn't sure I'd be able to make it work."

"I just wanted to ask about one thing, though. Why did you name the woman Cassidy?"

"Uh, I just like the name," Walt said uncomfortably. "Why?"

"Cassidy is my wife's name," James said.

"It is?" Walt's eyes went wide. "Oh. I didn't know. Uh, I can change it in the story if you want me to…"

"No, don't," James said. "I was just wondering why you picked that name, that's all."

"Um…" Walt was almost completely overcome by embarrassment. "There's this girl in my math class…"

"Oh, you mean Cassidy Angelini," James said, giving Walt a wry grin.

"Uh, yeah, that's her," Walt answered, grinning back.

"Well, she is cute," James said, giving Walt a thumbs-up.

"Yeah, well…" Walt shifted in his seat. "Don't tell her, okay?"

"Don't worry, Romeo," James said. "My lips are sealed."

"Anything else?" Walt asked.

"Yeah, just one more thing I'm curious about," James said. "The con man – why did you name him Sawyer?"

"That's not actually his name," Walt said. "I figure a guy like that would use an alias or something, right? Not his real name."

"Yeah, but still," James prompted. "Why that particular alias?"

"Well, the thing is, I'm working on another story about how he got that name," Walt said. "It's not finished yet."

"All right then," James said. "But I want to see it as soon as it's done, okay?"

"Oh, sure thing, Mr. Ford," Walt said. "Uh, I really need to go or I'll miss my bus…"

"Get going then," James said. "See you in class tomorrow."

* * *

The National League playoffs began that night, and Jack and Kate were both at the Ford house again to watch the game. Jack looked happier than he had in years, James thought. Kate seemed to be good for him.

"Gotten anything new from your favorite author lately?" Kate asked during a commercial.

"Oh yeah," James said. "He turned in his best yet this morning. It's got a really complex plot about a con man who sets out to swindle a woman and winds up teaching her to con people instead."

"Interesting," Cassidy said. "A love story?"

"Sort of," James said. "In the end, he still winds up conning her out of six hundred thousand dollars and leaving her, even though he loves her."

Jack snorted. "The kid seems to like nasty characters," he said.

"Yeah, well," James said. "They're well-developed, three-dimensional people, though. No matter what they do, you usually wind up understanding why they did it."

"Yeah, that's a point," Kate said. She took a sip of her beer, and then continued, "One of those stories you told us about last time – the one about the girl who blew up her mom's boyfriend?" She shook her head, and then said, "Well, my mom had an abusive boyfriend when I was in high school. And more than once, I thought about doing something like that."

"But you didn't," Jack said.

"Obviously, or I'd be in jail like the girl in the story."

"Actually," James said, "she wound up on the run, not in jail."

"Same difference," Kate said. "I'm just glad I never went through with it, that's all. I'd hate to have to live with something like that."

"So," James said, "would it totally freak you out if I told you the girl in the story was named Kate?"

Kate's eyes went wide. "You're kidding. Aren't you?"

James raised his right hand and said. "Honest to God, yes, Walt named her Kate. But yeah, I see your point. Most people might have destructive impulses like that sometimes, but they don't act on them."

"But in this kid's stories, they do," Jack said pointedly.

"Uh-huh," James said. "And Walt explores the consequences of that. Give the kid a break, Jack. He's just trying to tell an interesting story. I mean, what kind of stories would our lives make?"

Jack laughed. "You mean, four ordinary people sitting around drinking beer and watching baseball? Pretty damned boring, now that you mention it. And I'm just fine with that."

"Me too," Kate said, giving Jack a quick hug. "Life on the run may sound romantic, but give me a big hunky boring doctor to watch baseball with and I'm satisfied."

"Who am I to disagree?" Cassidy asked. "I married an English teacher."

"Amen and hallelujah," James proclaimed. "To boring lives!"

"I'll drink to that," Jack said. And they all did.

* * *

The next morning, before classes started, Jeremy Bentham walked into James' classroom and said, "James, can I talk to you in private for a minute?"

In the privacy of the teachers' lounge, James asked, "What is it?"

"A really peculiar thing happened to me yesterday, James," Bentham said. "My father – my biological father, that is – came to see me."

"Yeah? What did he want?"

"At first, he claimed he just wanted to get to know me better, to make up for all the years when he wasn't around," Bentham said. "But I didn't buy it."

"So what did he really want?" James asked.

"I asked him that, but he kept denying that he wanted anything more than to talk," Bentham said. "After a few rounds of that game, I finally told him to drop the act and tell me what it was he wanted from me, or to get the hell out."

"And?"

"He's dying, James. He needs a kidney transplant."

James' jaw dropped. He struggled to find something to say, but the words would not come.

"Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction too," Bentham said. "Once I pulled myself back together, I threw him out the door and told him to never come back."

"Son of a bitch," James whispered.

Bentham nodded. "Has Walt written any more stories?" he asked pointedly.

James nodded. "A few, yeah," he said. "And in one of them, he used the name of somebody I knew a long time ago. The character was pretty similar, too."

"And let me guess," Bentham said. "You'd never mentioned this person to him. Am I right?"

"What are you suggesting, Jeremy?"

Bentham sighed. "I don't know, James," he admitted. "I really don't know. There is no way he could have known about any of this, and yet there it is, right on the page. It's too much of a coincidence for me."

James shook his head. "This is crazy," he said. "I thought I just had a talented young writer on my hands, but now it looks like I have – some kind of psychic, or something. I don't know."

"I know how you feel," Bentham said. "I don't even believe in psychic powers, but I can't deny the evidence that's right in front of me." He scratched his head. "I just don't know what to do about it."

"Well," James said hesitantly, "it's not like he's hurting anything by writing this stuff down. I mean, he's not, is he?"

"I guess not," Bentham said. "But keep a close eye on him, would you? Because I honestly don't think he knows what he's doing. If he finds out – well, how would you handle it if you found out that stories you had written were turning out to be true?"

"Probably not very well," James said.

Bentham nodded. "And you're not a fifteen-year-old boy, either. Walt's a good kid, and I don't want to see him get hurt."

"Right," James agreed. "So we keep this to ourselves, then."

Bentham nodded. "I think it's best that way. For Walt's sake, if nothing else."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Cassidy came home one afternoon to find James slumped in a chair in the living room, staring silently straight ahead. On the floor in front of him was a dusty old cardboard box.

"James?" Cassidy said, concerned. "Is something wrong?"

James wordlessly held up a folded sheaf of papers in his hand.

"What is it?" Cassidy asked.

"Walt's latest story," James answered tonelessly.

"Is there something wrong with it?"

"Just read it," James said, handing it to her.

She sat on the sofa and began reading. When she reached the end of the first page, she whispered, "Sawyer."

"Yeah," James said. "Sawyer."

Cassidy looked at her husband. "You told him about Sawyer?"

James shook his head. "Not a word. Nobody in this entire town knows about Sawyer, except me and you."

"But…" she began.

"Just keep reading," he said.

A few pages later, Cassidy said, "This sounds an awful lot like what Sawyer did to your parents."

"It's _exactly_ what Sawyer did to my parents," James said. "Keep reading. It gets better."

She continued reading. About halfway through, she said, "Wait a minute. The Sawyer in this story isn't the original Sawyer? He took the name from another con man who swindled his parents?"

James nodded. "Finish it," he said softly.

Cassidy continued reading until the end. When she was done, she put down the pages and sat silently for a minute.

"So," she said after a bit, "he killed the wrong man."

James nodded. "Walt's pretty good at dramatic irony. Surprisingly good for a kid his age."

Cassidy nodded. "The letter was an interesting touch."

"That's the most interesting part," James said. He held up an old, yellowed envelope in his hands. "Now read this."

She took the envelope from James and pulled out a piece of paper. She looked at it, and read, "Dear Mister Sawyer." Then she stopped, and glanced sharply at James. "What's this?"

"I wrote that," James said, "when I was eight years old."

"But…" Cassidy said, looking at the paper in her hands, and then glancing at Walt's story.

"It's been in this box of my old stuff for decades," James said. "I got it down from the attic when I got home today. I'd kind of forgotten about it, until…"

"But this is impossible!" Cassidy objected. "I mean… 'Dear Mister Sawyer, You don't know who I am but I know who you are and I know what you done. You had sex with my mother and then you stole my dad's money all away. So he got angry and he killed my mother and then he killed himself, too.' It's the same letter that's in Walt's story!"

James nodded. "Word for word," he said.

Cassidy looked down at the letter and continued reading. "'All I know is your name. But one of these days I'm going to find you and I'm going to give you this letter so you'll remember what you done to me. You killed my parents, Mr. Sawyer.' How is this possible, James?"

"Don't ask me how," James said. "But he knew about Jeremy Bentham's father also."

Cassidy let out a breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "It's… beyond belief," she said.

"And yet," James said, pointing at the letter.

Cassidy took another deep breath, and said, "So, the Sawyer in Walt's story…"

"Is me," James said.

"Except you never did what the man in this story did," Cassidy said.

"No," James said. "Except for write the letter. But I could have. When I was eight, I swore I'd track down Mr. Sawyer if it took my entire life to do it. Just like the guy in this story did."

"But you didn't follow through on it," Cassidy said.

James shook his head. "I was pretty angry for a long time," he said, "but eventually I put it behind me and got on with my life. What's in that story is… sort of a might-have-been, I guess. It's what I might have become, if I'd taken a different road."

"My God," Cassidy said, looking down at Walt's story. "That would have been terrible. That Sawyer – he _became_ the very man he was hunting down."

James nodded grimly. "And then, at the end of it all, he didn't even find the right man. Call it a cautionary tale."

Cassidy got up off the sofa and came over to the chair where James was sitting. She knelt down beside him and said, "So what now?"

"Now," James said, "I guess I put it all behind me again."

Cassie nodded. "Good." And then she added, "So how did you get past it the first time?"

James let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Do you really want to know?"

Cassidy nodded.

"I saw _The Princess Bride_," he said, a grin spreading across his face.

Cassidy's eyes went wide. "You mean…"

"Hello," James quoted. "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

Cassidy tried to keep a straight face, but after a few seconds, she began laughing uncontrollably. James started laughing along with her, and said, "I could never take it seriously after that. It was just… too… much."

The two of them howled with laughter.

* * *

At school the next morning, before classes started, James passed Walt in the hallway. "Hey, Walt!" he called.

"Oh – hi, Mr. Ford," Walt answered sleepily.

"You okay?" James asked.

"Yeah, I'm all right," Walt said. "I was just up late last night writing."

"Another story?"

Walt nodded. "I got the idea for this one, and I just sort of had to write it down," he said. "Except it's not finished. I don't have the ending yet."

James nodded. "It'll come to you, I'm sure," he said. "What's it about?"

"Well, remember that guy Cooper, who was John Locke's dad in that one story?" he said. "Well, I got to thinking – what if he was Mr. Sawyer in the other story? Not the young one, but the old one who started it all?"

A strange sensation came over James then, as if a tight hand had grabbed his chest, making it difficult to breathe. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I can see how that would work."

"Anyway, I'll let you know when it's done," Walt said. "Gotta go. See you in third period."

"Yeah," James said, his mind a thousand miles away. "See you later."

* * *

At lunch time, James went to see Jeremy Bentham. "Jeremy," he said, "can I ask you a question?"

Bentham nodded, so James continued, "Your father – you said he used a lot of aliases. Did he ever call himself Sawyer?"

"Yes, he did, James," Bentham said. "According to the private detective I hired, he went by 'Tom Sawyer' for a while back in the Seventies."

James nodded. "Do you know where he is now?" he asked.

"He's in long-term care in a hospice," Bentham said. "James, what is all this about?"

"I want to see him," James said.

Bentham stared at him. "Why?" he asked.

"I want to ask him some questions."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with Walt's stories, would it?" Bentham asked.

"Yeah, it does," James admitted. "There are some things I just have to find out."

"All right," Bentham said. "But when you go, I want to go with you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Late one Saturday morning, Jeremy Bentham walked into Anthony Cooper's hospice room. "Hello, Mr. Cooper," he said quietly.

Cooper turned his head to stare at Bentham. He had an IV tube running into one arm, and a heart monitor beside his bed. "What, you again?" he asked. "I thought you never wanted to see me again."

"I changed my mind," Bentham told him.

"Oh," Cooper answered. "I don't suppose you reconsidered about offering a kidney to your dear old dad, did you?"

"No," Bentham said. "There's somebody who wants to talk to you."

"Oh?" Cooper said, noticing the other man standing in the doorway. "Who the hell are you?"

"James Ford," the other man said.

"Yeah? And what do you want with me?" Cooper asked. "You a cop, or something?"

"Just a messenger," James said.

"Well, get on with it, then," Cooper ordered. "I don't have forever, you know."

"You ever been to Jasper, Alabama?" James asked.

"Why?" Cooper asked.

"Have you or haven't you?" James insisted.

Cooper considered for a moment, then said, "Yeah, I been to Jasper. Don't tell me I'm your daddy too?"

"No," Sawyer said quietly. He pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Cooper. "Read it."

Cooper eyed the envelope, then pulled out the letter that was inside. "'Dear Mister Sawyer'," he read. He looked up at James and asked, "What is this?"

"Just read it," James ordered.

Cooper looked back at the letter. "'You don't know who I am, but I know who you are. And I know what you done. You had sex with my mother and then you stole my dad's money all away, so he got angry and he killed my mother, and then he killed himself.' Blah, blah, blah." Cooper put the letter down. "So what? Is this supposed to be you, you wrote this letter? You on some kind of revenge kick?"

"Keep reading," James told him.

"Easy, easy, don't get all worked up," Cooper said. "Look, I ran that con two dozen times. If your mother was one of the…"

"Mary," James said. "Her name was Mary."

Cooper thought for a moment. "Mary, from Jasper, Alabama," he mused. "Yeah, I remember her." He grinned savagely at James and said, "She practically begged me to take her thirty-eight thousand dollars and to rescue her from her sorry little life."

Anger contorted James' face. "You finish the letter."

"Look, I only took her money," Cooper protested. "It ain't my fault your daddy overreacted. If he pulled the old murder-suicide, that wasn't my doing."

"_Finish it!"_ James shouted.

"Okay, okay," Cooper said. He picked up the letter and ripped it into several pieces, then threw the pieces into the air. "There, satisfied now?"

James took a step towards the bed. Bentham also took a step forward, holding out his arm and saying softly, "James…"

James stared into Cooper's face. "You don't give a damn, do you?" he asked. "You don't care about all of those people you conned, all of those lives you ruined, do you?"

Cooper stared back up at him. "Hey, a man's got to make a living," he said. "So what are you going to do about it? Kill an old man who's lying in bed waiting to die anyway?"

James shook his head. "What would be the point?" he asked.

Cooper shook his head, and chuckled. "So, the little boy who wanted revenge doesn't have the guts," he sneered.

"You don't get it, do you?" James asked.

"I guess not," Cooper admitted. "I never got off on revenge, personally."

"This isn't about me," James said. "This is about an eight-year-old boy whose world you destroyed."

"And you aren't him?" Cooper asked.

"No," James answered. "Not any more."

"So what the hell is the point of all of this?" Cooper asked.

"You failed," James snapped.

"Huh?" Cooper asked, puzzled.

"You _almost_ ruined my life," James said. "But you didn't. I made a good life for myself despite it all. And do you know why?"

"This ought to be good," Cooper said, rolling his eyes.

"I beat you, because I'm better than you," James said.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Cooper said. "Is that all? You had Johnny-boy bring you here for _that_?"

"Yeah," James said. "That's all."

"All right then, you've had your fun," Cooper snapped. "Now get the hell out of here and leave me to die in peace."

"Fair enough," James said. "I did what I came here to do." He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"Goodbye, Mr. Cooper," Bentham said.

"What, you don't have anything to say to your own father?" Cooper shouted at him.

"Whatever I have to say, I'll say at your funeral," Bentham said. "I might even bring flowers." And he turned his back and walked away.

* * *

They were back at the Ford house by lunch time. James sat down heavily in a chair, and sighed.

"Are you all right, James?" Cassidy asked.

"Yeah," he answered. "Yeah, I think I am." He stared off into space. "I'm just glad I got that over with, that's all."

"Good," Cassidy said. "I was worried, James. When you said you were going to see him I thought you might do something crazy like shoot him."

That forced a laugh out of James. "I don't even have a gun, Cassie," he said.

"I know," she said. "But still."

"I just had to deliver that letter," he said. "After all of these years, it was time to be done with it."

"So," Bentham asked him, "are you satisfied with what happened/"

James shook his head slowly. "He's a pretty pathetic excuse for a human being, isn't he?"

"Yes," Bentham said. "That he is. It makes me glad that my mother put me up for adoption."

"Yeah," James said. "And I guess… I mean, I could have let him consume my whole life."

"But you didn't," Bentham said.

James nodded. "So I won."

"Good work," Bentham told him.

"So are you really going to go to his funeral?" James asked.

"Yes," Bentham said. "Once he's dead, I think I might even be able to forgive him for all of it."

James laughed once, and then said, "You're a better man than I am, Jeremy."

"No," Bentham said, grinning. "I don't think so."

The doorbell rang then, and Cassidy said, "I'll get it." A moment later, she called, "James?"

James went to the front door, and saw Walt standing there, along with a man James assumed to be his father. "Walt!" he said, smiling.

"Mr. Ford?" the man said. "I'm Michael Dawson."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dawson," James said. "Come on in!"

Dawson shook his head. "I don't want to take up your time, Mr. Ford," he said. "We're just here to say thanks." He held up an envelope, and said, "Walt got in to that writing program you recommended him for."

"Fantastic!" James shouted.

"Thanks, Mr. Ford," Walt said. "I really couldn't have done it without your help."

"It's been a pleasure, Walt," James said. "Truly."

Walt held up a stack of papers and handed it to James. "I finished that story I told you about," he said, smiling awkwardly.

Dawson grinned. "He insisted that he had to finish it before we came here," he said. "He worked like crazy on it all morning."

"I just really needed to know how it ended," Walt explained.

James smiled. "Good work, Walt. I'll read it right away."

Walt smiled, and Dawson said, "Thanks again, Mr. Ford. You don't know how much this means to me."

"I think I do," James said to himself, as Walt and his father left.

Bentham looked at Walt's story warily, as if it was akin to a snake about to strike. "Are you going to read that now?" he asked.

"I think I'd better," James said, and settled down to read.

A few minutes later, he said, quietly, "Son of a bitch."

"What is it, James?" Cassidy asked.

"Jeremy, read this," he said, handing Bentham one page.

Bentham scanned it quickly, and then looked up at James with a stunned expression on his face.

"What?" Cassidy asked.

"It's what happened this morning," James said. "_Exactly_ what happened this morning."

Bentham nodded. "Word for word, as near as I can recall."

"But…" Cassidy protested. "What are you saying? Walt wrote down what you two did this morning _while you were doing it_?"

James nodded. "Yeah. That's what he did."

"It makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Bentham said. "Are we just characters in Walt's story, then?"

James stared at Bentham. "You aren't serious, are you?"

Bentham gave James a lopsided grin. "No, I'm not," he said. "I make my own decisions. Walt just happens to write them down, sometimes."

"So now what?" Cassidy asked. "What do we do about…" She pointed at the story.

James glanced at the story's final page. "Well, according to this, we go have lunch now."

"And then?" Bentham asked.

"Then nothing," James said. "The story ends there."

Bentham grinned. "I guess that means we're on our own now, doesn't it?"

James laughed. "I guess so," he said. "Now, let's go eat. I'm starving!"


End file.
